The Wrong Man

34

Randall Manning stood in the office of his lawyer, Bruce McCabe. Being one of the name partners at Dembrow, Lane, and McCabe meant a corner office with enough room for a conference table as well, with impressive views to the west suburbs and south of the industrial flats.

But the shades were drawn out of an abundance of caution, notwithstanding that they were thirty-two stories aboveground. Stanley Keane was smoothing out the map on the conference table. Bruce McCabe was waiting to present his information.

Manning watched each of them. His eyes wandered to Bruce’s impressive walnut desk. Like Manning himself, Bruce McCabe lined his desk with photographs of his family, in particular his oldest son, James.

Invariably, Manning’s attention turned to his only son, Quinn. Manning had always known that his son was smarter than he. He remembered the summers when Quinn would intern at the company that he was destined to take over one day, the fresh perspective he brought even as a high school kid, the insightful comments. It had been Quinn’s idea, not so long ago, to expand aggressively overseas. He’d done an entire workup without solicitation, projections and figures and strategies. “It says Global Harvest on the door, right, Dad?” he’d said. “And what does ‘International’ mean to you?”

And Randall Manning had made the biggest mistake of his life. He’d agreed to let Quinn explore the opportunities.

“Okay, here we go,” said Stanley Keane.

Bruce McCabe had a yellow highlighter, which he poised over the map of the city’s commercial district and near-north side. He drew on the map as he spoke. “The procession starts at noon on South Walter Drive next to the Hartz Building,” he said. “It will move north up Walter and wind around with the river. It will cross the Lerner Street Bridge. And once over the river, it’s only three blocks to the federal building.”

Manning nodded. That’s where the procession would end, at the north end of the federal building, known derisively as the “brown building” for its drab color and unexceptional architecture. It was home to the federal courts, the U. S. attorney’s office, and more than thirty agencies of the federal government. It was in the federal plaza that, immediately following the march, a brief outdoor commemoration would take place.

“Last year,” said Stanley Keane, “it took thirty-eight minutes to reach the federal plaza for the commemoration.”

“And the commemoration lasted how long?”

“Thirty-six minutes.”

“So one P.M. would be a safe target time.” Manning looked at Stanley.

“Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”

Manning nodded. “What about security?”

“Security.” Stanley Keane groaned. “You know how it is these days, Randy. They keep that stuff pretty close to the vest. All we can say is what happened last year.”

“Refresh me,” said Manning, though he didn’t require a refresher. He knew every aspect of the security from last year’s event. He just wanted to gauge Stanley Keane’s preparation.

Stanley used a pencil and marked up the map. “It was primarily a perimeter formation,” he said. “City police on foot, about six for every city block, lining the curb on each side. Vehicle blocks on each end, but only sporadically blocking the cross streets. Mostly the east-west streets were simply barricaded with traffic horses. It’s kind of a scaled-down version of what they’d do in a full-blown parade. I mean, it’s the middle of winter and all. Most people don’t care all that much about Pearl Harbor Day.”

They will now, thought Manning. He asked, “And what about the state police?”

Stanley shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I’d imagine they’d stay very close to the governor as he walks at the head of the pack. But I don’t know. The governor didn’t participate last year.”

But he would this year. Governor Trotter, plus one of the state’s U. S. senators and the city’s mayor, would be walking in the front row of the procession. They would be joined by a former brigadier general who lived in the city and who served in World War II. He was, in fact, serving in Pearl Harbor on the day it was attacked.

Manning looked out the window, through the drawn translucent shade, colored by the rays of the afternoon sun. He thought about what was going to happen nineteen days from now.

What had President Roosevelt said about December 7, 1941? A date which will live in infamy.

And what would be said about December 7 of this year? A different time, a different event, but no doubt similar proclamations, teeth-gnashing denunciations, self-righteous indignation.

But one day, Manning was sure, history would thank him.

“All right. Bruce, your turn,” said Manning. “Tell me about this visit you had this morning. Tell me about Jason Kolarich.”